"Huh!" snorted Rusty. "I'll bet de razor I has in my jeans dat he was moh red dan pink when you-all got finished wid dat cannon o' yourn, Marse Warren. It runs in de fambly ter shoot straight!"
"Well, Rusty, let's ride straight for a while. We must go up this road to the turn."
They passed dark cottages, and finally reached the fateful angle of the road. Rusty groaned apprehensively.
"Say, Marse Warren, I wouldn't mind dis all in de meanest moonshine district in Kaintuck, but I don't like for to ride in dis yere foreign district. W'y didn't you-all pick out some place w'ere dey speaks human talk, instead of dis on-Christian lingo? It don't seem releegious to me, Marse Warren."
"Rusty, I'm beginning to think you've got a yellow streak in you, with all this talk about objections. You used to have a name for not even being afraid of your weight in wildcats," said Warren.
Rusty nodded, as he clung tightly to the saddle, on the increasingly rough trail.
"Marse Warren, dat was right. But wildcats is purty heavy, an' you-all can hit 'em with a shotgun. De trouble wid ghosts is dat dey don't weigh nuffin!"
"Lookout, Rusty. Here's a brook," and suddenly Jarvis' horse stumbled to its feet, after sliding down a sharp declivity which had been hidden by the shadows of the big moonlit trees. Rusty was not so fortunate,—he was rolled off despite his efforts, to receive a ducking.
Then did his teeth have reason to chatter, as he mounted again to follow his master up the declivity with dripping clothes.
"Whaffor dey want a crick like dat just below de doors of a castle, Marse Warren?" he complained.